


Something Tender to Remember you By

by Skitz_phenom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, Fate & Destiny, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sex Magic, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-23
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:20:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skitz_phenom/pseuds/Skitz_phenom
Summary: A morning in the woods leads to a hunt gone awry, a chance meeting that may not be, and a destiny... deferred.





	Something Tender to Remember you By

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lao_paperman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lao_paperman/gifts).



> Lao, your prompts were so much fun, and I loved that they allowed me to stretch my imagination! This took one of them, and a few other ideas as well, and geez I hope it goes in a direction you enjoy! Thanks so much for the inspiration!! 
> 
> Many thanks to the mods for being awesome (and exhibiting patience beyond what rational man could fathom) and putting up with me. Thanks to J. for the beta. I owe you!
> 
> Note: Minor spoilers contained in the content warning at the end (this regards the 'Animal Harm' tag).

“Arthur!”

Glancing up from swiping a thumb over a drop of still wet blood next to the freshly made track of a very large, and very wounded deer, Arthur turns and hollers, “Over here, Owain! He went this way.”

He _should_ wait for his companions, as he’s lost sight of all three already and doesn’t want any of them chasing in the wrong direction for their injured quarry. The woods here, verging on the borders of Avalon, are close and dim. It would be easy for one of them to get turned around.

Although, neither does he want to let the massive stag – Arthur’s crossbow bolt deep in his shoulder – suffer overlong.

Cursing his poor aim, and his own recklessness, Arthur’s up and trailing after the animal before he can think better of it. Owain and the others are skilled trackers, he reassures himself; they’ll catch up. At first the spread of prints is wide; four paired tracks grouped together in a staggered right-left pattern and spaced well apart, indicating that the buck was running. The crimson droplets are miniscule, scattered and faint.

Only a score of yards further on though, the distance between tracks begins to lessen, the pattern shifting to something uneven, and the point of a cloven hoof drags deeper into the detritus, signaling slowing, and a limp. Blood drops get larger, more concentrated. Once there’s a small pool of it, strong with the scent of iron over petrichor, where the stag must’ve rested a moment.

Trudging up a steep incline, Arthur finally spies the animal. Even downed, lying in the hollow of a fallen tree, he’s regal and he blends into the forest; the massive spread of his antlers looks like they form the very branches of the leaf-bare tree.

A pang of regret tugs at Arthur’s breast. He wishes he’d not taken the shot and not made this beast’s last moments agony. He unshoulders his crossbow, readies a bolt and takes careful aim. This time he won’t miss.

Something pale and quick darts past, just in Arthur’s periphery. Distracted, he turns his head at the same time his fingers close tight on the trigger mechanism. The ‘twang’ of the bowstring and the ‘thunk’ of the bolt impacting draws his eye back to his target.

He’s missed. The deer is still laying, head low, mouth open in a weary pant. Arthur’s close enough he can see how glassy the animal's eyes have gone. How could he have missed?

And where is his bolt? He heard it hit something.

Gaze searching over the fallen log that shelters the stag, Arthur works at the same time to ready the crossbow for another shot. He’s blindly reset this crossbow dozens, likely hundreds of times, but this time as he catches the stirrup beneath the toe of a boot and then reaches down and starts to draw the string back to the catch, his fingers slip and the taut sinew snaps back against the bowstave. He startles, swears and drops the damn thing.

When he spins to reach for it with stinging fingers – still half distracted by the missing bolt – Arthur’s head strikes a tree.

For a moment, everything goes white and then it starts to fade. He stumbles, catching himself on the very same tree, and squints blearily at the deer. It’s looking at him.

No, it’s looking at something _next_ to him. He tries to turn, feels nausea start to roil in his gut and, as the world slowly goes dark around him, he begins to fall. Before the blackness consumes him and the ground rushes to meet him, hands catch at his shoulders. His descent slows, and he blinks up at a face – pale and strange – and he has a moment to think, “Blue,” before darkness takes him.

 

≿————-　❈　————-≾

 “Arthur!”

Dimly Arthur wonders why Owain is calling for him again. Hadn’t he responded only moments ago…?

The voice calls out again, distant, muffled somehow.

It takes too much effort to open his eyes, and when he finally manages to separate gummy lids and blink away the haze of sleep film, he realizes the haze is still there.

And so is _pain_. It flashes through his skull, stabbing at him with every shush of his pulse, and even the soft, green-tinged light stings.

It hurts less to keep his eyes closed, so he does.

He’s prone, he takes in that much, and the grass is goose-down soft beneath him. His head is pillowed on something warm and firm but fairly yielding.

It’s difficult to think… to understand where he is or why there’s a sharp, alarming throb down the whole side of his temple and jaw.

“Owain, Pellinore,” he rasps. “Over here.” He tries to lift an arm but it’s heavy and feels weighted. Easier to leave it tucked at his side.

The calls continue. Faint and indistinct, still he hears, “Arthur! Where are you?” and “Sire, are you hurt?” and “Dammit, Arthur!” They sound fraught, frantic.

Despite the pain, he forces his eyelids open the barest slit, and turns his head just enough to see that there are men, his men, searching through the trees only a few dozen yards away. Like everything else, they’re blurred by that leafy-hued mist.

He needs to go to them, to let them know he’s all right. He can’t let them worry.

“No, don’t try to sit up. You need to rest.”

It sends a spike of agony at the base of his neck, but Arthur manages to open his eyes wide and look upward. Staring down at him is that face, the one he saw in the woods, with the deer.

It’s a lovely face, male but almost pretty and formed of gracefully sloping curves and sharp, shadowed angles. Shaggy, mink-dark hair stands out starkly, framing alabaster skin. 

And his eyes are otherworldly. The color of deepest water beneath a pellucid frozen surface that reflects a late evening sky. The dark blue of winter, marled by frost and snow shadows and river ice.

“Blue,” he says.

The man smiles. His mouth looks plush, like petals of a blush rose, plucked and artfully shaped. Dimples, left then right, pin his cheeks as the smile widens.

“Yes,” the man says, and his voice is deep; a thrum that Arthur feels reverberate through his body. “You said that before.”

Arthur frowns. He doesn’t remember. “My men,” he utters, the words clumsy on his tongue. “I need… to go to them.”

“You need to rest,” the man says, gentle but insistent. “Your hunters will find you when you need them to, have no worries. But for now, you need to sleep and to heal.”

Arthur tries to protest, to move.

Fingers stroke gently over his forehead, spreading an odd, tingling warmth in their wake. A heavy lassitude subsumes him. “Sleep,” the man instructs. So, Arthur does.

 

≿————-　❈　————-≾

 “Arthur?”

It’s not a distant shout or a startled cry. It’s soft and close.

Arthur opens his eyes, and this time he finds he can keep them open. That peculiar haze still surrounds them, but he realizes it’s less a fog than some gauzy barrier arching overhead in a large, semi-translucent dome.

“Where am I?”

“Safe.” It’s the same man from before. Though he no longer has Arthur’s head cradled in his lap, he’s still very close. He’s seated cross-legged on the ground at Arthur’s side and watching him with a kind of wary scrutiny.

That’s hardly an answer. “And my men? Where are they?”

“I’m assuming safe as well.” The man gives a loose shrug.

“Before… I saw them. They walked close by, calling for me, but they couldn’t see me. Couldn’t find me.” He states these things as fact but he’s hoping for some answer.

“That’s my doing. I’ve… hidden you, let’s just say. You took a terrible blow to the head,” he chides. “It could’ve killed you. I’ve kept you safe here, so you could heal.”

When Arthur tries to sit up, the man moves to assist. “I don’t… I don’t understand. Where am I actually?” Once he gathers his legs under him and is able to stay seated without aid, Arthur looks around and takes stock. He’s still in the woods.

In fact, he recognizes the fallen tree they’re sitting in the shadow of. There’s a crossbow bolt an arm’s length above his head.

But there’s no sign of the stag.

He turns to the oddly beautiful man. “And who are you?”

The man gestures to himself, tapping slender fingertips against a bared chest. “I’m called Merlin,” he says.

His chest isn’t the only thing bared, Arthur realizes after a brief and rather startled glance down. If he’s wearing anything to cover his modesty, Arthur doesn’t look long enough to find out.

“Merlin,” Arthur repeats, ignoring the flush of heat climbing his cheeks, and the name feels strange on his tongue. Familiar.

“And you’re Arthur Pendragon. Son of Uther Pendragon, King of Camelot.”

Eyes narrowing, Arthur asks fiercely, “How do you know who I am? Who are you really?”

Merlin tsks and bows his head, shaking it slightly.

It’s then that Arthur notices his ears: they’re overlarge and overlong both, and they taper into points. “What manner of creature are you?” he hisses out in accusation.

Merlin’s head shoots up and those darkest winter eyes flash with a swirl of golden light. “Creature?” he repeats, affronted. “Just because I’m not mortal does not make me some mindless beast.” The aurous glow fades, leaving only indefinable blue behind. “I am one of the Sidhe. The Free Folk, the Fair Folk, as you mortals call us.”

Arthur’s mouth falls agape. He’s heard tales – nearly every child in Camelot has – of the elves or faeries that roam the Darkling Woods and taunt innocent villagers and farmers and woodcutters with their cruel and capricious jests.

But they were just that: tales. Stories told to scare children and warn them from straying too far after dark.

“You’re a faerie?”

“Elf,” Merlin replies, but shrugs like it makes no matter to him.

“Right. And you’ve got me hidden in the middle of the woods?” He glances around again, feeling a twinge at his temple. He reaches up and gently prods the area, feeling puffy skin and the flaking crust of dried blood. “I hit my head!” he exclaims, like that explains everything.

“You did,” Merlin agrees.

“So, this,” – he gestures between the two of them – “is just a dream? Or something?” he adds the latter hopefully.

Merlin shakes his head. “No. Sorry. You _did_ hit your head, which is why I created this illusion around us, so I could aid in your healing. But this is as real as anything.” As if to demonstrate, he pokes Arthur in the cheek.

“Hey,” Arthur bats the hand away and then thinks a moment. “All right,” Arthur says slowly. “So… if you exist,” he splays a hand toward Merlin, who gives a quick nod, “as you clearly do, are all the tales true then?”

Merlin hefts a shoulder again. “It depends on the tale.”

Thinking back to the fables he’d been told as a child, and the parables that had been shared by over-cautious adults, Arthur selects the first that comes to mind. “The faerie hill. That they’re entrances to the kingdom of the Sidhe and to disturb one will bring great peril.”

The grin that engenders answers the question before Merlin speaks. “No. Well, not exactly. That’s not to say that certain natural phenomena don’t have some… significance to the Sidhe. Faery hills and fae rings, they often represent locations where there is a confluence of nature’s energy. But the actual entrances to our realm are varied. The nearest to here is upon the Lake of Avalon.” He inclines his head vaguely westerly.

“What about changelings?”

Merlin blows out a noisy sputter. “Untrue. We’re not fond of mortals, as a rule. It’s rare we venture out of our own realm into yours.  So, stealing mortal children?” He mock-shudders. “Eugh, no.”

Every part of that just raises more questions. “What do you mean, that you rarely venture outside your realm.”

“Just that. My kind have the capability to interact with the mortal realm, but most of us prefer to stay within our own.  Those of us who are more tolerant of your human… intricacies,” he grins, “may cross over more often. They are likely the source of your legends. And finally, there are a few of us whose very existence is tied to this realm and those within it.”

“And which of those are you?”

Merlin looks away, face falling and gaze going wistful. “The latter.”

Arthur gets the sense that he’d best not ask. “So, if you’re not fond of mortals, then why help me?”

A blush, Arthur learns, looks quite fetching as it chases up Merlin’s beveled cheeks and spreads to the delicate points of his ears. “Uh, well.” Merlin rubs a hand at the back of his neck sheepishly. “Your getting hurt was likely my fault.”

“You struck me?”

“No,” Merlin scoffs. “Don’t be thick. But I did distract you when you were attempting to kill the stag.”

He remembers that pale flash, just at the corner of his eye. He scowls. “You’re the reason I missed my shot,” he accuses. “And, you realize that poor animal is now likely suffering or has already died a slow and agonizing death.”

Another disgruntled snort slips out Merlin’s lips. “You really think I’d let him suffer like that? Elves are protectors of all the flora and fauna in our demesnes.”

“So, you killed him then?”

Merlin’s eye roll is perhaps the most ridiculously exaggerated thing Arthur’s ever seen. “No, you clotpole, I _healed_ him.”

Arthur ducks his chin, abashed. “Oh. Well, good. I’d not have wanted him to suffer.” He risks a glance up at Merlin, careful to keep his gaze fixed above chest-height. Something confuses him. “Though, why heal me? I’m the one who shot him, you know. My friends and I were hunting, but he was _my_ quarry. You may have felt guilt for the distraction you caused, but…” he clenches a fist in the air, feeling like he’s grasping at something just out of reach. “That still doesn’t explain it entirely. I mean, why not just heal the deer? Why heal the man who tried to kill a deer you saved?”

The blush, which had started to fade, flares up again, bright and hot. “Uh, well. That’s something you’re probably not quite ready to hear.”

 _What_?

“What kind of answer is that?” he demands.

“The one I’m willing to give,” Merlin retorts. “Trust me, Arthur. The truth behind that answer carries with it a heavy burden. I’d not see you stuck bearing the weight of it just yet.” He juts his chin and his lips press thin, like he’s done with the subject.

Arthur is nothing if not perseverant (though some might call it stubborn… to a fault). “I’m quite capable of shouldering burdens. I’m the Prince of Camelot. I’ve led men into battle and had to watch them live or die on my decisions. I’m sure I can handle whatever it is you feel is too much a burden.”

“You’re not really a prince though, are you?” Merlin quirks a knowing brow. “Not yet. You’ve two years until you reach your majority and are officially named heir to the throne. Prince may be your title, but it’s not who you are.”

Unnerved, Arthur says, “That’s absurd. Of course it’s who I am.” And then he adds a suspicious, “How is it you know so much about me?”

“That,” Merlin says, “is just another of those things I can’t explain.” He spreads his hands and shrugs.

“This is ridiculous.” Arthur surges to his feet.

He realizes that’s a mistake just as he finishes standing. His head starts to swim and the world spins ‘round him. Luckily, before he can topple again, Merlin is there with steadying hands.

“Whoa, now. Didn’t I say you needed to rest? To heal.”

Clutching rather desperately at Merlin’s shoulders, Arthur’s too grateful for the support to care that he’s pressed, hip to shoulder, against a naked man. “I thought,” he says, pausing for breath when his surroundings wobble (or is that his head?), “that I _was_ healed?”

Merlin slowly and gently guides him closer to the fallen tree. The hollow – where the stag had lain – looks soft and inviting, and Arthur doesn’t object when Merlin eases him back to the ground. He sits, using the tree for support and draws his knees up so he can rest his arms over them. Dropping his head between them a few moments, Arthur just breathes.

“Better?” Merlin asks after a few minutes have passed.

“Better” Arthur agrees.

“You’re still heal _ing_ ,” Merlin explains. “I’m sorry I didn’t do more. You see, I was able to repair most of the damage, but healing magic is the most costly of magics and I’m afraid I spent much of myself on saving the life of the stag.”

Arthur lifts his head enough that he can look up at Merlin, who’s still standing over him, his brows dipped inward and his teeth tugging at the corner of a lower lip. He’s also still _quite_ naked, and for Arthur it’s a struggle to focus only on his face. “Uh, magic?” he manages to sputter.

“Why do you look so troub– oh!” Merlin waves an arm in a sweeping motion that takes in the whole of his form from head to toe. “It’s this, isn’t it? My body.”

Arthur’s eyes, of course, are compelled to follow the gesture. He drinks in everything he sees. Merlin’s body is as beautiful as his face. He’s well-formed, lissome, with long limbs, a firm chest and taut belly and wiry looking muscle on a not-too-slender frame. His skin is smooth and pale like freshest cream; except his nipples, that are the same budded rose of his lips, and his dusky, blush-hued cock, which nestles beneath springy ebon hair. It’s quiescent, lying soft and – unfairly – appealing against a milky thigh, but as Arthur stares it twitches, just a trifle.

He drops his head back between his knees and makes a strangled noise. “Don’t you have any trousers?”

Though Arthur can’t see him, focused as he is on a fascinating mushroom sprouting from the detritus between his boots, he can hear the laughter in Merlin’s voice.

“I’d forgotten,” Merlin says with annoying delight. “You mortals are so prudish. If it will help, I can cover up a bit.”

“Yes,” Arthur bites out.

“Very well. It’s done.”

Warily, as he didn’t hear Merlin move from where he was standing, nor the rustle of cloth or any other noise indicating he’d dressed, Arthur raises his gaze. His eyebrows follow, lifting halfway up his forehead. “How did you manage that?”

Merlin is now accoutered in a pale, gossamer-thin, sleeveless tunic that looks like it’s as fine as spider’s silk, and is tied with a length of vine, over a pair of short trousers that barely reach his knees and resemble nothing more than sewn-together leaves of all shapes and colors. His feet remain bare.

“Magic,” Merlin says with a frown, like that was a ridiculous question. “I don’t actually own any clothes. I’ve no need for them.”

More magic.

“Wait, I thought you said your magic had been spent on healing me, and the buck?”

Merlin shakes his head. “No, this magic,” he flips a hand at his new garments, “is of a different type than healing magic. They take different… resources, I guess you could say.” He tugs at the hem of the tunic and Arthur sees that the warped and weft threads pull apart easily, just like spiders webbing. “I created these from nature herself. Some magics draw on the elements; the sea, the wind, the earth, the flame. Some can even call upon time, or the light in the sky, or the darkest shadow. It’s quite dependent on the purpose.”

“What does healing magic draw on?” Arthur asks. He’s not sure why he’s so captivated by Merlin’s explanation. He shouldn’t even be _listening_ to this. Hardly a day has gone by in the last eighteen years that Arthur has not heard his father talk of terrible and wicked sorcery and the evils of magic. But what Merlin speaks of carries no hint of anything to be feared.

“Oh, well, life must draw upon life.”

“I don’t understand.”

Strangely, a smile pulls at the corner of Merlin’s mouth. “Well, it’s both as simple and complicated as it sounds. Essentially, I bestowed some of my life for yours and the stags.”

Arthur’s jaw drops. “You gave me your life? Does that mean saving me could… kill you?”

“No!” Merlin shakes his head, splaying the flats of his palms to ward off such a thought. “No, it won’t, as I won’t let it. I mean, I could try, I suppose… but essentially, I stop using it when I feel it’s costing me too much. It’s more like it saps my energy, my strength. And that does come back. It refreshes itself over time.” He lifts a hand to scratch at his neck. “It’s like running or fighting or anything really. If you do them too much, you’ll drain and tire and need time and rest to recover.”

It’s a far different concept than Arthur’s ever heard of as magic is concerned. He’s been warned of spells and enchantments and potions and any number of items that could do him harm. He wonders if his father even knows magic like this exists?

 _Of course not_ , he scoffs mentally. Merlin still exists in Camelot; Uther doesn’t know about him to have him hunted down.

Further considering Merlin’s explanation, he asks, “If it’s like fighting or running, then can you aide in your own recovery? I mean, after a long session on the practice field, I’ll drink and eat, as well as rest.”

For some reason, that rather innocent question causes another of those all-over flushes to spring up on Merlin’s fair skin. “Uh, well yes. Although it’s not quite as simple as that. Uh…” he rubs at his neck again, brightening the pink. “Food and drink do aide in the recovery of some magics. Healing is… life-giving. So, there are other life-affirming acts that can speed it’s renewal.”

Arthur frowns. “What kinds of acts?”

He’s barely got the question out before the meaning of the phrase ‘life-affirming’ suddenly springs to mind. “Oh!” he says before Merlin can say anything else. “Uh, right.” He casts about for something… anything to say. Desperate, he blurts out, “So you eat then? I mean normal food?”

Now that he thinks on it, Arthur realizes his stomach feels a bit sour and empty. He wonders how long its been since his breakfast in his chambers. As he and the others had left the keep before dawn, he assumes it’s been several hours.

Merlin’s face screws up comically (though he looks equally relieved at the change of topic). “Normal food? What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. Bread, meats, vegetables.” He sputters, feeling foolish.

“All of those,” Merlin nods.

Just speaking of bread and meat makes Arthur’s stomach rumble, quite vocally.

“Hungry?”

“A bit,” Arthur admits. “You may have other ways of regaining energy,” – his throat goes a bit hoarse for a moment – “but, I’m afraid we mortals are limited to more prosaic methods.”

“Well, I can do something about that, at least.” Merlin tells him with a cheeky grin. He holds out his hands, cupping them together, and then speaks strange, ageless sounding words. His eyes flash with that golden light again and Arthur’s so caught up staring – fascinated with how they fade from coruscating gold to fathomless blue – that he doesn’t see the exact moment that Merlin’s hands fill with lush, purple blackberries.

“Will these do?”

Arthur can’t stop himself from laughing in delight. “Yes,” he says, plucking a berry from the heaping pile.” He pops it in his mouth. It’s sweet and succulent. “Delicious,” he declares.

With a grin that’s both pleased and prideful, Merlin conjures several other things – bread, rich cheese, bright red apples, and dark-skinned plums – explaining that he’s not necessarily creating them from nothing, but drawing instead from the bounty of nature to form it as he desires.

“I assume you could manage a drink as well?” Arthur asks, already biting into one of the tart and juicy plums.

Merlin holds out a hand. “Pass me your waterskin,” he instructs.

From the pile of his belongings nearby, Arthur searches out the leather skin that had been tied to his belt. He gives it a shake, “It’s near empty.” He gives it over.

“No matter.” Taking hold of it, Merlin speaks more of those guttural, raspy words and his eyes go molten once more.

When he hands the skin back, Arthur can feel that it’s heavy, weighted and full. “Thank you.”

They spread Arthur’s cloak, sit upon it like they’re on a picnic, and share a meal. The wineskin, Arthur is pleased to note, is filled not with water – as it had been after Arthur had refilled it early that morning in a stream – but elderberry wine. And everything that Arthur eats is the best version of it he’s ever tasted; sharp, piquant cheese, still-warm, honeyed bread, and crisp, biting apple.

It’s a lovely meal and an even lovelier time, whiling away the afternoon in such unaccustomed leisure. He feels lazy, decadent and curious to a fault. Satisfying the latter, Arthur asks more questions about elves while Merlin does his best to answer. He learns so much more than he ever thought possible. Occasionally, some of Merlin’s responses are vague, or… guarded, but he’s open and truthful as well.

The pleasantness of the afternoon is marred only by the dull but persistent ache in his temple.

It’s a selfish thought, but Arthur wishes that Merlin might recover more of his healing magic, to draw away that last, lingering pain.

Further, it’s a reckless thing to even consider, and a more damning thing to say, but Arthur feels compelled. “My head. Would you be able to finish healing it, if you were… restored? Can you, um, restore yourself?”

It’s a visual that’s been teasing the back of his mind since Merlin’s ‘life-affirming’ comment – of Merlin’s naked body and his own long fingers waking his cock – and though he knows it should disturb or disgust him, it does anything but.

Merlin blinks. “Uh, you mean…” The gesture he makes is crude, but unmistakable.

Arthur’s cheeks burn, but he nods nonetheless.

“Er, well. No. Not _that_ , anyway.” Equally flushed, Merlin manages a rather playful smirk. “Not very life-affirming when it’s wasted.”

“Ahh,” Arthur replies, not at all disappointed.

Merlin sighs. “I do wish I had more energy to heal you properly. It comes back, but slowly.” He sounds achingly regretful.

“It’s a shame I’m not a princess then, isn’t it?” Arthur says, concentrating hard on the waterskin clenched between his fingers. He’s almost shocked at how brazen he’s become.

Instead of agreeing, Merlin looks at him quizzically. “What do you mean? Why is that?”

“Well,” Arthur gestures between the two of them with the flagon. “If those life-affirming acts must be shared, I mean…” he lets the thought trail off.

Still, Merlin just stares in confusion.

“It’s just that, I’m a man and so are you. If I were a woman, perhaps I could… help?” he squeaks out the last.

“Being man or woman doesn’t matter. It is the sharing of the act with another that gives it power, that makes it not wasted.”

“Oh.”

Arthur stays his tongue for all of the time it takes to swallow down another mouthful of wine. “Then, I could aid you?” he asks carefully, knowing his face must be a veritable match to the plums in color by now. “In recovering, I mean?”

“Arthur,” Merlin says as clipped and deliberate as anything he’s said since the moment Arthur woke. “Are you…offering that?”

No! Arthur wants to blurt, should _shout_ for the god’s sake.

Instead, he finds himself nodding.

Merlin meets his gaze, the blue of his eyes receding against the spreading ink of pupils going wide. “Do _you_ want that?”

Arthur nods again, forcing himself to acknowledge that this is _him_ … nothing else compels him but his own deep-seated urges. “Do you?” he asks huskily.

The nod that Merlin gives is slow, almost wary, but there’s no mistaking the growing hope.

The admission makes Arthur’s breath catch and he lifts a hand, almost reaches out. “I… don’t,” he stutters. “I’ve actually never done this. I don’t know how to start,” he admits that with a wild sort of chuckle.

Merlin’s grin spreads, tender and fond. “I think we can figure it out together,” he suggests, then adds shyly. “But first, perhaps a kiss?”

It’s such an innocent suggestion, but it makes Arthur’s blood go hot. “Yes,” he agrees. “Yes, let’s start there.”

They’re already seated close on the cloak, and it takes little more than a lean from Arthur and a lean from Merlin and their lips press together.

The first touch is… well, Arthur knows it’s cliché, but it feels like he imagines magic must. Merlin’s lips are velvety and plush and they alight, whisper soft against his again, and again. It’s the basest instinct to draw him closer, to deepen the kiss.

Merlin obliges, rolling to his back and dragging Arthur down atop him and then he teases at the crease of Arthur’s mouth with a pointy tongue and licks his way inside. Arthur’s sweeps his own tongue against Merlin’s, and bites at his lip and sucks it in. They kiss, wet and deep until they’re both panting and the air around them goes humid with heavy breaths.

Finally, Arthur draws away, just enough so he can stare deeply into Merlin’s beguiling eyes. “This feels so right,” he admits, almost awed by it.

“It does,” Merlin agrees, oddly bashful.

“I want more,” Arthur tells him.

Merlin nods and darts in to nip at Arthur’s chin. “As do I.”

Despite the urge, he’s at a loss. He says so. “I don’t know what to do next.” Perhaps it should be shameful – he’s a grown man, after all – but he’s also a prince who’s been cautioned since he was still a boy that bastards only threatened the throne.

“Well,” Merlin says, grin still bashful, but pert as well. “Whatever we do next, I’d suggest it will feel better without these clothes.” He tugs at the gossamer tunic with distaste.

“Right,” Arthur agrees, immediately, because already the press of Merlin’s body against his, with layers of cloth between them, is its own kind of maddening delight. The thought of sweat-damp flesh pressing and sliding against his own makes him exhale, lightheaded. “I’ll just,” he begins and starts to lift himself up, taking his weight off of Merlin so he can get at his collar and belt.

Tugging him right back down, Merlin flashes that impertinent grin again. “Not necessary,” he says and his eyes flare. When the blue is back, their clothes are gone.

“You’re quite brilliant, Merlin,” Arthur tells him, punctuating that with another kiss.

Skin-on-skin is even better than he could’ve fathomed. He grasps at everything in reach, feeling Merlin’s firm biceps and the bumps of his ribs. He maps the dimples framing his spine and the back of his thighs, all the while sweat gathers slippery between their bellies and they slick and slide and rub their cocks against each other’s skin.

Merlin’s hips rock into his and he grapples and hooks his fingers into Arthur’s shoulders and the meat of his arse. He draws them tighter, closer. Arthur rolls them, getting Merlin above him, changing his leverage so he can drive his heels into the dirt and shove up against the hips that thrust down to meet him.

It’s primal… animalistic, the way they rut helplessly, but Arthur’s orgasm is so, so close and he knows – from Merlin’s breathy, whining gasps to the way Merlin’s nails drive into his scalp – that Merlin is with him.

When he comes, wet heat spattering over his abdomen, it aches deep in his balls and his belly and each throb and pulse sends judders of lightning down his spine.

Heat splashes between them again as Merlin lets go with a sharp cry. He holds himself up over Arthur on shaky arms a moment, while the last drops fall from his slaking cock, and then collapses down on him.

“Dear gods, Merlin,” Arthur breathes, Merlin’s weight across his chest a comfort rather than a hindrance. “I’ve never known anything like that.”

“Me neither.”

With a wicked giggle, Arthur admits, “And I want to do it again.”

“We should,” Merlin agrees. He slides sideways off Arthur, until only half his body splays over Arthur’s like a leggy blanket. Lifting his head, Merlin says, “We _can_.”

“I’d like that Merlin, but I’ll need some time to…” he trails off as Merlin walks teasing fingers down Arthur’s belly to his spent cock. Already his cock is filling, lengthening in Merlin’s skilled grip.

“That _must_ be magic,” Arthur exclaims.

Merlin nods. “It’s the healing magic. Your wound is fully healed now, and let’s just call this,” – he squeezes Arthur’s nearly tumescent cock – “a pleasant side-effect.”

Distracted as he is by Merlin’s eager hand, Arthur also reaches up to touch at the spot on his temple where an egg sized bump had risen, and the skin had split. But the skin is smooth, knitted together and flat, with only a faint area of abraded roughness remaining.

“Thank you, Merlin,” he breathes and follows up the words with a kiss.

Between their lips, Merlin’s “You’re welcome,” is a tickling vibration.

Arthur huffs a laugh, and hauls Merlin up bodily again. He relishes the feel of Merlin’s weight on him, holding him down. Grounding him. He keeps kissing and kissing, like he’s drinking Merlin in.

Though he returns Arthur’s kisses, fervent and fiery, Merlin’s hand works itself between the tight press of their bodies, bossily pushing at Arthur until there’s enough room for him to get his hand wrapped around Arthur’s cock. He slides the fleshy pad of his thumb over the swollen tip, and Arthur jerks involuntarily. He can feel Merlin grinning lazily as he curls his hand around again and strokes down and then reverses, giving a quick upwards tug, milking with his fingers. On the next downward stroke, he lets his fingers keep sliding further, to tease at Arthur’s balls.

"Merlin,” Arthur hisses, throwing his head back. He bites his lip to contain a desperate groan when Merlin squeezes tight, giving a thrust-twist with his hand down the full length of the shaft and ending with his hand at the base, nestled in dark gold curls.

Pressing closer, Merlin wraps his free arm around Arthur’s shoulders and nips at Arthur’s jaw and Arthur turns to meet his mouth again, hungrily biting and licking at it. Boldly, he cups a hand over Merlin’s pert bottom and holds tight while Merlin’s hand settles into a steady sweeping-sliding-squeezing rhythm. Within embarrassingly short moments, Arthur yanks his head back from Merlin’s mouth with a hoarse gasp and then grates out a noise that might be Merlin’s name again or might be a wordless curse, as he comes so hard white-hot stars spark and flash behind his tightly squeezed eyelids.

“Merlin,” Arthur says again, when he finds breath and sense to speak; he’s slow and sated.

“Arthur,” Merlin replies, fast and heated.

Arthur blinks his drooping eyes open and glances down between them. Merlin is so hard, cock blood-flushed and leaking.

“Do you mind if I –” he begins but already has a hand grasping at himself. He rolls off Arthur and lies akimbo on the cloak, frantically jerking himself with short, abrupt strokes.

Arthur wants to see it,  wants to see Merlin’s face as he brings himself over with pleasure, but he forces the question, “I thought that didn’t work… to replenish you?”

Head flinging wildly back and forth against the cloak, Merlin laughs madly. “I don’t care!” He speeds his strokes and his hips jump to meet his own fist.

Though Arthur tries, he really does, to get his own hand in place, to help coax Merlin’s spend from him, in the few moments it takes to shove his arm down, Merlin is already coming, hot and thick over Arthur’s reaching fingers and palm.

“Sorry,” Merlin utters, sounding wrecked. “I couldn’t wait.”

“No apologies, Merlin. That was gorgeous.”

They lay back together, sides pressed close, and let the cool forest air cool the sweat from their bodies. Merlin gives a flick of his hand that cleans the smears of drying come from their bodies. Arthur snags the wineskin from where it got tossed by Merlin’s hasty – and quite magical – clearing of their makeshift bed. He takes a long pull, and offers some to Merlin, holding it up and pouring the liquid into Merlin’s parted lips. They drain the flagon and Arthur tosses it aside.   

He props himself up on a shoulder, so he can place soft kisses over Merlin’s throat and chest. He’s come twice, in an impossibly short time, and already his lust is stirring.

“Why am I so drawn to you, Merlin?” he shakes his head, bewildered. “I’ve hardly known you half a day and…” he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. “I mean, I don’t tend to tumble into bed with people I’ve only just met.”

Chewing at his lip, Merlin takes a long moment to answer. “There is an explanation for that. One I’ve tried to… avoid. To ignore.” He sighs, rueful. “But clearly I was unable to resist it’s draw.”

“I thought you didn’t want to tell me?” Arthur asks with a frown. “Earlier, you said it was more than I should have to shoulder. What’s changed?”

Merlin’s brow goes up significantly.

Arthur snorts. “Well I know that. I am lying here naked, aren’t I? It’s just… it isn’t only this, is it?”

“No,” Merlin says with the barest shake of his head. “No, it’s not just this.” He presses a hand over Arthur’s heart. “Arthur, as I said before, it’s not many of my kind who readily spend time in this mortal realm. Just those few that are curious, or the fewer that are tied to this world by the designs of destiny… we’re long-lived and our existence is often tangled in its fate.” He stops, takes a deep breath. “My existence, my life, my very soul, are tied to yours.”

“Tied how?” He wants to make light of it, waggle a brow, but there’s something in Merlin’s tone that tells him this is as serious as anything he’s ever known.

“You, Arthur Pendragon, are destined to be so much more than just a ruler of Camelot. You have a grand fate that awaits you. And it will be my privilege to be by your side as it unfolds.”

“I don’t understand. What kind of grand fate?”

Merlin’s head rocks from side-to-side in the grass. “I do not know.”

Arthur frowns, starts to protest.

“I _truly_ don’t, Arthur. Amongst the fae there are those who can read the future in the stars. I only know that there is a place there, for us both. And neither of us will get there without the other.”

Overwhelmed, Arthur lets his head fall back down to the pillow of leaves beneath the wool of the cloak. He stares up at the canopy of trees, the light that dapples that odd barrier Merlin’s magic sustains. “How am I to go on, knowing that my life holds such significance? I think you were right, Merlin,” he adds, voice small, “this is a burden I’m not sure I can carry.”

Softly, Merlin tell him, “You won’t remember.”

Arthur sits up again. “What?”

“You won’t remember any of this, Arthur.”

“What do you mean I won’t remember?” Arthur barks, and waves between the two of them with a sharp jerk of his arm. “You think I’m likely to forget this day? That I’m just some lowly mortal who shags a handsome elf in the woods and slips away in the morning.”

Merlin shakes his head sadly. “No, Arthur. That’s not it at all. You won’t remember because I won’t let you. I won’t let myself remember either.”

Arthur’s hands fly up to his head and he knots both his fists in his hair. He lets out a growl of utter frustration. “I don’t understand! Stop speaking in riddles.”

“I told you that we’re fated,” he starts gently and waits for Arthur to nod. “There is a future writ for us and we are meant to be together again. But, it doesn’t start like this.” Merlin spreads his arms wide, encompassing. “The two of us, meeting in the woods.  This was… happenstance. A mistake really. And,” he ducks his chin, “entirely my fault, because I knew better than to try to be near you. Your pull was greater than I imagined.”

Merlin swallows hard, and his eyes glisten. “We will meet again, and soon, but you and I won’t know one another. This will be just… a dream.”

It’s slowly making sense. “You’ll use magic, you mean. To make us both forget about this… about ever meeting or sharing this day together.” He doesn’t need to voice it as a question.

Still, Merlin nods.

“And the next time we meet, I won’t know you, will I?”

“Nor I you,” Merlin agrees. “But, I will find you again. It is my destiny.”

It should horrify him, Arthur knows, that Merlin will alter his memories, that he’ll have no recollection of the day they’ve spent and the things he’s felt.

But… it also feels, right?

“Will we ever remember this?” he wonders. He hopes so.

“Perhaps,” Merlin offers with an uncertain shrug. “In time.”

Quiet for a very long time, Arthur eventually lets out a melancholy, but not quite sorrowful sigh. “If that’s the case, I suppose we’ll just have to make sure we’ve something absolutely spectacular to remember.”

He watches as a grin curls into Merlin’s cheeks. “Oh, is that so?”

“It is,” Arthur nods, firmly. He trails his fingertips up the length of Merlin’s lean thigh.

“And I suppose you have something spectacular in mind?”

It's Arthur’s turn to grin, wicked with devilry. “Oh, I do. Why don’t I show you?”

Arthur lunges forward, catching at Merlin’s mouth in a fierce, greedy kiss. He’s so quickly come to know the press of those lips, the soft curve and the plush, damp heat of them and the slick slide of that tongue against his. He could spend another lifetime learning every nuance of every kind of kiss they might share.

Pushing one hand into Merlin’s hair, twining even more of the thick strands between his fingers, Arthur clenches them into a fist, both to hold him steady and to feel the vibrations of Merlin’s low moan against his mouth.

Merlin throws his head back with a gasp, exposing the long line of his throat, and Arthur bends his head, lipping at Merlin’s jaw and up the long ear to bite at the point of it – which makes Merlin whimper and curse – and then down the line of his throat. He sucks faint bruises into the thin skin over a collarbone and catches a pert nipple between his lips, teasing it to pebbled hardness.

As he laves Merlin’s ribs and drum-taut belly with the searching point of his tongue, Arthur rocks his hips slowly, rolling his cock against Merlin’s. Again, Merlin moans, throaty and deep.

Arthur lets his mouth curl into a smirk he hopes looks at least a bit lascivious, and scoots further down Merlin’s legs. He lets his knuckles drag across the hot skin of Merlin’s cock. Every touch elicits breathy gasps and low curses and Arthur relishes each whimper of sound. When Merlin is squirming and mewling, he wraps one hand around the base of Merlin’s cock, holding it firm. He bends his head and exhales a hot breath over the tip. It jumps in his hand, and Arthur’s grin spreads wide.

He kisses there then, and then tongues the little stretch of skin beneath the head. Merlin bucks up, and his fingers scrabble at Arthur’s hair. He’s got to press a forearm over Merlin’s hips, pinning him down as best he’s able, and then he slowly eases his mouth down Merlin’s impressive length until his lips meet his fist.

It’s the first time he’s ever done this, and it takes him a few moments to get used to the strain against his jaw and the stretch of his cheeks. He moves slow, gliding his mouth and lips and tongue over Merlin’s cock in steady, languid strokes.

“Arthur,” Merlin hisses out after only a few minutes of that sensual suck and glide, and to Arthur’s surprise he feels Merlin’s hands grappling at his head and shoulders. “Wait… wait.”

He pulls off with a wet pop and looks up, concerned. “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“No,” Merlin gasps, and then laughs with a rumble deep in his chest. “No, not at all. It’s just, I want… if this is to be our last time, I want to make it count.”

It’s a well-made point, but Arthur’s feeling rather determined, eager to see this through. “But if you come, can’t you just draw on the magic to renew yourself?” He waggles his brows.

Merlin blinks. “Oh, yeah. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Giving a playful tug, Arthur quips, “Well, as I’m sure you’re a bit distracted, I supposed I can forgive you being a bit of an idiot.”

Retaliating by grabbing greedily at Arthur’s head, fisting his hair, and shoving him back down, Merlin thrusts his hips and cock up to meet Arthur’s descending mouth. Arthur opens his lips wide, taking Merlin deep as he can, sucking firm and using his fingers to stroke the length he can’t quite manage. He can feel Merlin’s fingers tightening rhythmically in his hair, timed to every up-down slide of Arthur’s mouth. He speeds up, sucking harder and working his tongue against the shaft; it’s wet and messy, saliva dribbling down his chin and his slippery fingers just hold on now, squeezing the base of Merlin’s cock tight.

Merlin’s thighs begin to tremble, and Arthur gives up on pinning Merlin down, keeping him from thrusting too hard with only the circle of his fist. He works his other hand down instead, to cup the tightening sack of Merlin’s bollocks. He rolls them gently against the flat of his palm and swallows around the head of Merlin’s cock.

Fingers clench in Arthur’s hair, tugging him away urgently. He lets Merlin’s cock slip out of his mouth, drawing his head back, but with his spit-slick fingers, resumes the same hurried pace he’d set with his mouth. Merlin gets a hand around himself as well, and together they stroke him to completion.

Merlin comes hard, with a low, reedy groan, the first pearly splashes landing high on his chest, and then striping his belly. Arthur takes his hand away and lets Merlin finish wringing out the last few pulses on his own. He drags a sticky hand against the grass and then wipes the back of his forearm across his mouth while Merlin pants raggedly.

“Good?” he asks, cheeky and sure.

“Marginal,” Merlin says on a heavy, exhaled breath.

“Dollophead,” Arthur accuses, the made-up word feeling weirdly right.

He waits a few minutes more, to let Merlin recover and then pokes him in the ribs. “So, how soon…”

“By all the old gods, you’re insatiable,” Merlin accuses, but he’s already rolling back up to his side and he reaches for Arthur greedily.

Arthur starts to shift, to let himself be drawn close, but Merlin pushes his shoulders back down to the ground. “No, like this. I want you like this,” Merlin says, hot-eyed and wild.

Before he can ask just what Merlin wants, he throws his leg over Arthur’s hips and straddles him. Arthur’s breath is punched out of him by the intensity of Merlin’s gaze.

“Just like this,” Merlin repeats, and he reaches for Arthur’s cock – still hard and aching between them – and he lifts his hips and slowly eases back down.

Arthur feels a heat and pressure like nothing he’s ever known squeeze around his cock. “Merlin…” he sighs, made slow, drunk, and thick-tongued by the carnality of it. He can only lay back, as the heat and ache and pressure and bliss build and build with every roll of Merlin’s hips. And maybe it’s that he’d already come, or maybe it’s magic… or maybe it’s just Merlin, but that pleasure plateaus as Merlin rides him, never quite peaking, never quite reaching its crescendo.

It’s maddening and mind-numbing and Arthur grasps frantically at Merlin’s hips and pulls him down hard and tight and then he rolls them over, getting Merlin’s knees pushed up so he can press his weight down on the backs of his thighs.  And Arthur thrusts, driving into Merlin so deep. And Merlin’s desperate, throat-scraping cries spur him on and he slams into him, frenzied, uncontrollable, again and again and again until Merlin’s whole body goes taut and he throws back his head and howls like he’s dying…

And Arthur’s world goes white again, as he’s consumed by a soul-searing ecstasy.

When the light fades and color returns, Arthur can feel the hot trickle of come on his belly and tears on his cheeks. He looks down at Merlin, to see his eyes are wide and lit from within by that golden fire.

“I’ll remember that,” Arthur promises, as he watches the gold fade.

Merlin’s own face is wet and he looks fragile and soft. “Me too,” he says, the barest hint of a smile on his lips.

“Now what?” Arthur asks, fearing what’s to come suddenly.

Reaching up to curve a hand over Arthur’s cheek, tenderness and love shining in his eyes, Merlin says, “Now, we sleep.”

And Arthur knows that when he opens his eyes, this – what he’s shared here with Merlin today – won’t even be but a memory. Still, as he reluctantly draws his body away from Merlin’s, lying next to him on the cloak instead, Arthur feels an odd sense of peace wash over him.

“Thank you, Merlin. For saving my life.”

Merlin’s fingers tangle with his.

“Thank you, Arthur, for giving us a day to remember.”

 

≿————-　❈　————-≾

 

“Arthur!”

The distant shout worms its way into Arthur’s subconscious and he’s pulled from a rather pleasant, hazy dream.

“Whuh?” he mutters, and then spits out a piece of a dry grass that sticks to his tongue. It comes to him then, that he’s lying in the forest, cheek pressed into damp leaf matter and cool soil.

Why the hell was he sleeping in the hollow of a fallen tree?

“Arthur, where are you?” The voice is louder, closer. He recognizes it.

“Owain!” He calls back even as he starts to sit-up. “Over here!”

In the few minutes it takes for Arthur to get to his feet and swipe the clinging sticks and grass from his clothing and cloak, Owain and his other friends arrive.

“There you are!” Pellinore says, rushing in to clap Arthur on the shoulder. “We were getting worried, weren’t we?”

The others nod and make noises of agreement and circle around him like they’re afraid he’ll disappear again.

“What happened, Arthur?” Bedivere asks. “You’ve been missing for hours!”

“And what happened there?” Owain taps lightly at Arthur’s forehead.

Arthur reaches up and feels a small scab just at his hairline. “I think…” he begins slowly, searching for the memories. They begin to come slowly, filling into his mind like wine being poured into a pitcher. “I think I may have bumped my head on a tree.”

Yes, that sounds right. “Knocked me a bit silly,” he admits sheepishly. “I… sat down and I think I must’ve dozed off.”

“Must’ve walloped yourself right good that you didn’t hear us tearin’ up the bloody trees looking for ya!” Bedivere says with a hearty grin.

“But where did you run off to?” Owain asks, “We’ve been searching all ‘round here.”

“Oh, well,” he finds the answers coming easier and easier. “I was following the stag’s tracks, as you know. I found them, and a blood trail as well.” He looks to Owain, chiding, “I did call out to you, if you’ll recall.”

Owain tucks his chin. “Yeah, but I was waiting for the others. I didn’t know you’d run off on your own.”

“Should’ve,” quips Bedivere. The other’s laugh and Arthur gives a rueful shake of his head.

“Quite, yes. I suppose I _should’ve_ waited,” he admits. “But, I was so certain that I’d gotten a good shot into that beast’s shoulder and that I’d find him downed less than a league away.” He shrugs. “But, I never found him. I did find my bolt though. And the blood trail had dried up.”

“Must’ve just winged him,” Bedivere suggests.

As it’s the only explanation Arthur can come up with, he nods. “That’s what I figure. Probably nicked along his skin and that’s why it bled the way it did. Anyway, I was on my way back to you when I turned wrong, and,” he gestures to his forehead. “Bumped a branch. And, you know the rest.”

It’s such a silly story, and Arthur’s embarrassed that he looks such a fool in front of his companions.

“Well, we’d best be back to Camelot,” Pellinore suggests. “Don’t want the King after us for keepin’ the prince here out past dark!”

With a laugh, Arthur drives a shoulder into Pellinore’s ribs. “You’re just lucky you didn’t leave without me! My father would’ve had you all in irons!”

Ribald laughter and crude jests accompany them as they begin their return to the keep. Arthur reaches the edge of that little clearing and looks back over his shoulder.

For a moment – an eyeblink – it looks as if there’s a greening haze arcing over the fallen tree and that little hollow where he’d dozed, and it seems to glow with a faint, ethereal light. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, it’s gone.

He must’ve struck his head a bit harder than he realized.

Making a note to stop in by Gaius in the morning, Arthur heads out of the woods.

 

≿————-　❈　————-≾

 “Arthur.”

In the midst of cutting into the well-seasoned breast of roast capon, Arthur lays down his knife and looks up at his father. “Yes, father?”

“You seem unusually quiet today,” Uther says, wearing a dour frown. “Is something the matter?”

Across the table, Morgana hides a smirk in her wine goblet.

“Just disappointed by the hunt yesterday, father.”

Morgana laughs, warm and delighted. “He’s just pouting because he got lost in the woods and those buffoon friends of his had to search for him.”

Arthur shoots her a glare. “I wasn’t lost,” he insists. “I just followed that stag a bit further than I realized.” He gives a derisive sniff. “And if those idiots I call knights were better trackers, they’d have found my trail hours earlier.”

“Well,” Uther says, clearly unconcerned over such a trivial matter. “I’m sorry your hunt didn’t go well. Shame about that stag.”

“Yes,” Arthur agrees. It had been a magnificent animal.

“Although, Arthur,” Uther continues. “That whole business with getting separated from your companions. I know you’ve disapproved of the idea of a manservant, but –”

“Father,” Arthur interrupts with a low groan.

Uther just lifts a hand, silencing him. “You _will_ have a squire, Arthur. I insist. In fact, Lord Reginald has a cousin or nephew or some such, whose son desires a place in the staff. You _will_ take him on as your squire.”

There’s no protesting, and Arthur knows it. He lets out a bleary sigh between pursed lips. “Very well, father.”

Going back to his meal, Uther pauses with a drumstick halfway to his mouth. “I believe his name is Morris.”

There’s a moment, brief and mercurial where Arthur thinks, ‘no, that’s not right… that’s not his name.’; then the thought is gone, fading from his memory like so much evaporating haze.

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER:
> 
>  
> 
> For any concerned about the use of the 'Animal Harm' tag, please read: There is mention of a deer being hunted and wounded, but it's later healed.


End file.
